Writing

I smear the skin of trees with black blood,
entwining the white stretch,
pulling veins with a dull needle,
sewing antagonistic meaning
over the scars of past procedures.
Every new piece a massacre.

If anything good can com from a murder,
let it be that my knife would slip
and spill my sacrificial red into the page.
All that is fresh and yet alive in me
is in the letting action,
relinquishing my death grip on this breath and rage.